RPlog:Hangars Hazards
---- At this present moment aboard Johanna's flagship - suspiciously named the Price of Pleasure - the Main Hangar is abuzz with activity. And not all of it good. Vaporized coolant spreads across the atmosphere from a severed pipe on one of the cargo shuttles - the result of a mynock infestation that the unfortunate pilot of the shuttle has brought onto the mothership. At this point in time, the problem is largely contained. Only a few mynocks were found clinging to the aforementioned shuttle, chewing on power cables etc, and the creatures flew toward the bulkheads to avoid capture and death. The mynock that made it into the women's locker room (next to the pilot's lounge by the hangar) caused QUITE a stir that shall be remembered for years to come. It was the first of the pests to be shot down. Of the remaining two, only one remains. The second mynock to 'bite the moon-dust' (so to speak) latched onto one of the hangar-based security holo-cams - a view that frightened the life out of the security officer monitoring that camera (much to the amusement of everyone within the Bridge at that time). Ecks, who had been in his shuttle earlier, is now surveying and cataloguing the damage in the hangar, shaking his head and trying not to chuckle, whilst others hunt down the last mynock. Mynocks. Why? Just... WHY?! Why do these things ALWAYS happen to her?! It simply isn't FAIR! "My ship," Johanna laments, ambling into the hangar proper with a half-empty bottle clutched firmly in her left hand (it's the Damion way: when the shit hits the fan, drink as much as is humanly possible), "My ship, oh..." She shakes her head, gazing forlornly at the aftermath of the havoc wrought by the pests. This is going to take time. This is going to be... expensive. From behind her, an unholy electronic howl. "GET OUT OF MY WAY YOU FAT-ARSED FARKFACE," shrieks Cricket the homicidal astromech, his saw-arm spinning furiously, "I SEE THAT LAST MYNOCK! MIIIIIIINE!" If there was a way to set first impressions, this so is not it. Having caught a ride up earlier, the newest member for the crew is stepping into the area as Rourke takes in the hangar bay and it's eclectic mix of ships, and starts to say something just as the whole cacophony of noise and shouts catches in his ears, and the officer barely has time to say anything before he's suddenly got a shadow and... Latched onto by the mynock, Rourke and creature go falling onto the deck, the officer flailing and giving a muffled yell as the mynock gives his face the business and before it shrieks -- probably a laugh at Rourke as it launches back into the air and rolls over onto his stomach to sputter and spit. "I DO NOT DO ALIEN WIGWAM!" he yells, "Kill that blasted thing, I'm going to put its head on the wall in my quarters!" More spitting continues as Rourke tries to regain his composure after the attack to his face and dignity. The last one to arrive at this little party, after setting her ship safely down in the hangar, emerges from her ship carrying a file case that looks particularly weighty and a thermos - covered, sealed, germ free - of Caf. She takes one look at the chaos of the hangar, the flapping of the free range Mynock and the shrieking of Cricket. With a sigh, Lynae turns and seals the hatch of her ship, cycles the security and sets the file case on the deck, calmly puts the thermos down as well and draws the blaster from her side, checks the charge on the energy cell before moving forward. "Joh," she says quietly into her com, trusting the ship's command center to patch her through, "I appreciate welcome parties but I didn't order mynocks. Balloons, yes, clowns, no, mynocks -" she chuckles, "So no." Ecks, busy doing calculations on his datapad whilst on the move, stalks up to the guilty shuttle (and its pilot), looking... perturbed. "What did you DO?!" he exclaims as he peers up the boarding ramp. "Stop for nerf-burgers in the middle of the Hoth asteroid belt? Whatever happened to standard quarantine--oh the power couplings! We just bought those, and now--this is going to cost us a fortune!" Well, it'll cost Joh a fortune... Assuming she doesn't decide to blame it on me, for some reason, '' the broker thinks. He turns to spot Rourke doing the ''Silicon-Sucker Two-Step with the mynock, and then swivels about to see the homicidal R2 unit... And he lowers his datapad to his side. "Why did I wake up this morning?" he laments to himself, and immediately sets his jaw. Up comes the datapad and the broker goes into 'damage-control mode' (i.e. find some way of replacing the damaged ship parts and systems that won't break the bank. Or his neck. At least the coolant-gas cloud is under control. That is the most immediate danger... aside from--oh, there goes another power conduit, shorting out. Ecks sighs. "Oh I have SUCH a bad feeling about this..." "NOOOOOOOOOOO," Cricket screams in his ungodly binary when it becomes apparent that Rourke is trying to romance his mynock (HIS GLORIOUS MYNOCK!!) "MIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!" Added to the din of the spinning saw-blade is now the taser-arm, extended menacingly and crackling with juicy electricity. "STUPID HUMAN," the astromech howls, jamming the taser right into Rourke's thigh and unleashing all manner of pain, "STUPID FARKFACE HUMAN! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!" Johanna meanwhile seizes the opportunity to take a few more swigs from the bottle. Long ones. Oh hell... here's one more for the road. Things seem mercifully less loud now. From somewhere, Lynae's voice. Oh right! Her comlink. "I... uh..." *drink* "Heyyyyy, Lyn''ae!'' JUST in time..." *drink* *hiccup* "Oh, my ship." Having punished the offending human enough (for now), Cricket wheels off at top speed once his little sensors pick up the location of the mynock's newest perch. "MIIIIIIIIIIINE!" he screams again, "ALL MINE!" From afar, Johanna notes that Joh's ship (and life) is like one of those commercials where the mom comes home to find the kitchen torn to shit, with the kids swinging from the light fixtures, and the dad attempting to bake with lighter fluid. And in the background, the family dog and cat are chasing each other and knocking over all the plants. Two weeks ago, Fleet HQ: Rasi is looking over the files and listening to a briefing. "So, we should send an officer to be a liaison to keep an eye on them. Do you have someone in mind?" Rasi smiles thinly. "Oh, I have just the person, he's the perfect sucker for the job." At least that is now Rourke imagined the conversation went that got him stuck in this forsaken frak-hole. First, it was mynock in the face. And now Cricket is trying to give it to him in his rear - fortunately as Cricket unleashes his electric orgasm, Rourke is able to move just enough that he's only able to call out, "Don't taser me, Rob---" and too late, his side gets nailed and the officer gets his first taste of hot robot electroprod, and no sir, he did not like it. He'll just lay here on the floor and twitch for a little bit and wonder who the hell at HQ he pissed the hell off in order to end up with this assignment. And how to make repentance. "I should have taken the offer to fly fake womp-rat crap out of Tatooine." The shrill scream, robots scream after all - or at least Cricket does - makes Lynae jump slightly, resisting the urge to shoot Cricket. For the 100th time or so. Not shooting Cricket is key to getting along with the captain of the Good Ship Crazybot, after all. Though there's a strong temptation to shoot Cricket anyway, she can always pay for the repairs. "Joh, how much have you had to drink and what.. in the name of logic.." she begins to wonder into her comlink before seeing Cricket wheeling off chasing through the hangar deck again. Spotting Joh, and the bottle she's holding, Lyn gives a small eye roll that is more amusement than anything else and ambles in Joh's direction - keeping the blaster aimed down at the deck for the moment, just in case. "What is that droid of yours screeching about this time?" she wonders and tilts her head to the side to read the label on the bottle that Joh is holding. "Hmm, not bad, if you want to kill your taste buds and give yourself a lovely headache come morning. That being said, what needs to be shot?" she wonders, after all, something ought to be shot. Perhaps Ecks. "And who did Cricket just assault?" is wondered, glancing through the chaos toward where Rourke is twitching at the moment. "Uhh, Johanna..." Ecks murmurs upon his approach to his somewhat tipsy employer. "I do not know how to tell you this, but..." He glances aside at Cricket and blanches - he actually turns a faint shade of white. Swallowing, he taps and moves his fingers over his datapad, checking on sources, prices and... well, shortcuts too (to getting what the ship needs), before looking at the Jedi again. "Has anyone ever told you, your R2-unit appears to be possessed by a rabid Dark Lord of the Sith? Should it not... have a restraining bolt on it? Or an off-switch? Perhaps a memory-wipe? I fear it might--oh look, it has just electrocuted the gentleman and now appears that it might try to give the man an enema." Ecks grimaces. "I suppose - from a certain point of view - one might assume it is trying to help in its own, deranged way. If I didn't know any better, I would say it received its programming as a torturer at Helga the Hutt's House of Pain..." Ecks' voice trails off when the pilot (human, male, dishevelled - new, a recent hiree on a temporary contract) appears from within the damaged shuttle, and spots the chaos in the hangar. The pilot (Corellian, suspiciously not-sober) takes one look at Cricket, and then Johanna, and ducks BACK inside the shuttle, hoping to go unnoticed. But Cricket isn't trying to be helpful, unless by helpful one means murderous. It's not for nothing that he has no less than 47 humanoid silhouettes stencilled onto his cylindrical torso, the little black figures all neatly lined up like so many nerflings to the slaughter. Now that his path to mynock-glory is unimpeded, however, he needn't bother with molesting anyone (save his prey). In a sweet, sweet burst of glory, he corners the critter and sends a powerful spray of fire-suppressing foam right into its face, stunning it. The holo of the proceedings would probably be illegal in at least a dozen systems. "Blah blah blah," the pilot shrugs, making yapping gestures with her free right hand, "Nngh. Ecks, shaddup. OH LYNAE!" As if only now remembering that the physician is in front of her, Johanna perks up and looks cheerful. "Wanna drink? Good stuff, really. Reaaaalllly." Still twitching, but finally starting to recover, Rourke pushes himself to his hands and knees. "Rasi is going to pay for this.. hazard pay. Combat pay..." the gunnery officer turned liaison mutters angrily. "I wonder if he'll accept Loss of Dignity as a reason for compensation. Why not try it once?" And with that, he pushes himself up and feels woozy the first time he tries to get to his feet and stumbles. As he's still not fully about his wits yet, there's a stumble towards what he hopes is the safety of Johanna and her companion, trying to get away from face-huggers, robot enemas, and hiding Ecks, he nearly falls over and ends up against Lynae, his hands firmly on her.. command modules. Err.. whoops. '' And with that, Rourke looks up at the doctor and he blinks. "Where'd you come from?" "Programmed.. no, it was probably giving Lessons," Lynae replies with a measured sidelong glance at Ecks. "Knowing Cricket's predilection to chaos, pain, confusion and did I mention chaos, it's not unusual for that droid to be inflicting pain and other such things upon those not fast enough to move out of danger radius." She reaches out as she speaks and lifts the bottle from Joh and gives it a subtle shake from side to side to watch the contents swirl, "The really good stuff..." is as far as she gets before her train of thought is disturbed. Derailed. Slightly shoved off kilter with all the force of a train sliding down a set of broken racks plunging into the river. Or maybe into a gorge. Possibly with a load of dynamite on the following car that will likely explode on impact. Because that's just about as derailed as it gets. Rourke stumbles toward the relative safety of Johanna then nearly trips over - what does he nearly trip over? - something, possibly slipping on Mynock goo - and casts his hands out to try to save his balance. Lynae's expression is one of shock accompanied by, "Galen?" in a tone of voice that conveys the same blasted thing: shock, oh, and surprise. She tries twice to form a good reply and lands on: ''"Hands," with a glance down at his hands. Ecks stalks away from Johanna - not offended at her, but rather irked at the pilot that started all of this. Datapad clenched in his hand at his side, teeth gritted (to begin with, as he gains more control over his annoyance), he hisses: "Section 356-2742, Sub-Section 24-beta, Heading 442, Sub-Heading 3.27, Paragraph 515c, Line 23 - of the Trans-Galactic Shipping and Trade Articles of the New Republic STATE--" He has to pause to take a breath. "--That all cargo-vessels must under-go self-inspection for restricted goods, foodstuffs, contraband - and ONBOARD *~PARASITES~* - before they dock with their destination, thus breaking Standard Quarantine Protocols as outlined in the 'Quarantine Act' of the OLD REPUBLIC, dated--you know what? To quote that little homicidal tin-can on wheels - frak the protocols! I'm going to toss you out the airlock MYS--No. Better. Droid!!" He glances back toward Cricket, his smirk somewhat vicious. I have to find replacements for everything damaged, now - the DROID can explain the Shipping Protocols to this...Bantha Poodoo with the breath of a drunken Sarlacc with gingivitis." He then takes his first step up the ramp into the damaged shuttle. Cricket is busy trying to shove the foamy mynock into one of his data-ports (so he can eat it, naturally) when his sensors pick up Ecks' summons. It's not so much the word 'Droid!' as it is the tone that alerts him to the fact the clone is indeed calling to Cricket Ard'rian McKenzie, Reaper of Souls. Or at least that's how he likes to think of himself. He proceeds to zip across the deck and heads for Ecks, mynock firmly grasped between his pincer attachments. "Yeeesss?" he hoots lazily and not without a little menace as his lights blink in a deceptively soft and soothing fashion, "What do you want, fark-face? I'm trying to EAT." The mynock is given a firm shake as if to underscore the force of this last word. Cricket's holorecorder is silently activated -- he can't, after all, pass up a chance to sell this footage later -- and his dome moves several degrees counter-clockwise to ensure the angle is optimal to capture every sordid detail to come. "Did... did you just... grab 'er... oh, Maker!" A loud, uncouth snort escapes the pilot and she doubles over in laughter at the sight of Rourke's mitts firmly plastered onto the physician's rack. Rourke is caught breast-handed on the doctor's rack, and the gunnery officer looks up at Lynae, his hands dropping and he clears his throat as he looks to the woman. "At least I didn't pull a knife on you this time, Lyn?" he asks her with a lift of his brow. And then he chuckles. "I was just assigned here. I didn't know you were assigned.." he says, and then just considering the day he's had.. A new assignment, wigwam, electroprods, and the good Doctor's pods, Galen Rourke just stares for a second and sighs. "Frak it." And with that, he grabs the sides of Lyn's head and pulls her in, kissing her firmly and fully as he tangles his hand into her hair and tugs. Now, if Rourke had stuck to his opening remarks, honestly, she had a perfectly good response already working its way forward. She'd have said that 'I'm glad you didn't pull a knife on me this time, Galen'. It'd have been polite, too, and really quite reasonable. She'd then have said 'I'm not assigned, I'm a friend of the Captain's,' which would have been accompanied by a nod to the tipsy Johanna. 'Be wary around the droid, by the way,' she'd have added - better late than never, right? Except Galen Rourke grabs her, tugs her in and kisses her while tangling his hand in her hair and tugging. Instinct kicks in and there's a brief moment of swift movements where she sweeps his feet out from under him with a swift kick, grabs his arms and twists, driving him toward the deck without any real warning until she yanks his shoulders up at the last possible moment to keep his head from slamming into the deck. After all, blunt force trauma to the back of the skull after being eloectro-tortured by Cricket is inadvisable. "Galen?" she says again, not quite stupidly, "Assigned?" she demands next before, well hell with it, she leans down and kisses him back for a moment before easing back a pace and staring at Galen with a stunned look on her face. "What in the name of..." her eyes lift to Joh, then Ecks, measures the proximity of Cricket and back around, officially at a loss for words. Ecks emerges from the shuttle with the Corellian pilot in tow. The pilot is not so much struggling as stumbling - clearly inebriated - almost forcing Ecks to drag him by the scruff of his neck. "Let me see here... the cost of the wasted coolant, the coolant-ducts, the power-couplings (and the cables, we mustn't forget those)... I'm getting reports of cosmetic damage to the Hangar bulkheads, and reports--oh, that's interesting!" He pauses at the foot of the ramp, standing tall over this drunken shuttle pilot, and chuckles. "It appears one of the female fighter pilots (a Ms Freda Butcher - apt name, there) has lodged a formal complaint that a mynock molested her in the shower. That's one case of sexual harassment we'll have to deal with--oh." The broker spots Lynae and Rourke and the 'intimate' predicament in which they both find themselves. "Make that two cases of sexual harassment," Ecks notes down, verbally reciting things for the hell of it. "That's one way to get a grasp of the situation... Well!" He puts the datapad down and shakes his head whilst giving the chaotic hangar a quick survey. "If we dock your pay - completely - you can see your way to repaying your debt in, oh... 34.3 Standard solar cycles." The man appears to be joking, as his prim and proper expression dissolves into abject misery and he lets his head dip forward a bit as he lifts the datapad and starts to repeatedly bap it against his forehead. Too much noise. Too much movement. And what is that smell?! "Whaaat?" It's a look of utter confusion that wends its way over Johanna's features, her beleaguered senses unable to process the mouth-noises emanating from Ecks as she tries to wrap her mind around the concept of LYNAE KISSING ROURKE -- hell, LYNAE KISSING ANYONE -- and Cricket wheeling up in the wake of the entire fracas, still stubbornly trying to force that mynock into his data port... oh and look, is that the new pilot... drunk? Or maybe she's imagining things... hallucinating. Yeah, that must be it. Gods, the room could really help her out and STOP SPINNING RIGHT ABOUT NOW. Did someone say the word sexual? Twice? She looks at her broker and his drunk suspect and tries mightily to form a coherent thought. It's so difficult, they really have NO IDEA HOW HARD SHE WORKS, NOT ANY OF THEM! WHAT IS THAT SMELL?! And then Johanna vomits -- all over Ecks' boots. So, that's the definition of dip-kissed. At least in the mind of Lynae Cassius, that's what it means as Rourke gets rag-dolled by the doctor and he gives a sharp yelp - that is until it's muffled by the kiss of Lyn and he makes a startled noise and struggles a little as he pulls himself up slowly. "I am so getting too old for this crap.." he murmurs under his breath as he slowly gets back to his feet. "Yeah.. the New Republic military thought that apparently I needed to be taken off of my shelf.. and they sent me here to watch over this..." he gestures grandiosely, "..in return for the Captain getting a nice stipend." Yes, that same puking doctor. As he gets to his feet and lets out a breath. "I've had like the worst day ever until this moment.." he starts to say as the smell of Cricket eating mynock touches his senses and he looks a little green in the gills. "Uh. Mind if I crash in your quarters, Lyn?" he ventures bravely. Oh yes, Joh, he just so went there. You think Lynae kissing anyone is bad, try adding in what comes after kissing, Johanna. This mental image brought to you by the Players for the Ethical Treatment of Bothans. '' Lynae does a rather credible, almost laudable, impression of a landed fish. A fish swooped out of the calm waters of everything makes sense and bashed about on a rock of change until flopping into the sand twitching and.. twitching actually is a good ending. Just twitching. That is until Joh decides to return the booze she's been renting and send it back to it's natural state, with some minor additives and well blended - onto Eck's boots. Lynae makes a small sound, almost a laugh, almost a snort, kind of a startled ''snerk of sound before she turns back toward Galen and rises to her feet again once well, drawing him with her. "Why is that blasted droid trying to eat a Mynock? Who is this person and is he responsible for the mynock madness? What do you mean taken off your shelf?" followed almost immediately by, "No. I mean, yes, that is, I don't mind. MM," she looks flustered now and rubs at her neck with one hand. Ecks... looks down at his boots. His custom-made boots. His custom-made, baby-bantha hide boots (he IS Imperial after all). Slowly, he lifts one foot out of the oozing puddle of...well, we'll just leave that to one's imagination - and then, quite deliberately, give a flick of his foot, sending flecks of the stuff flying about. Then, in quite the same manner, he lifts his other foot and does the same thing - and tiny globules of vomit sail gaily on the winds of chaos, to Johanna, the shuttle-pilot, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby. Ecks then raises his datapad to his face again, and enters in a new item: "One pair... of custom... bantha-leather... black-polished boots... I fear I am NEVER going to forget this. This... most memorable of mishaps that shall haunt my days and nights for years to come." He sighs, shakes his head, and goes to step away-- *SQUELCH* --As his foot connects with a puddle on the ground, the only thing he can do... ...is wince. TO BE COMPLICATED...